An American Story[ The Federal Slave Narrative Collection ]An essay by Victor Ha

Illustration by Sara Dunn

UNCLE BILLY MCCREA, former slave: “And I recollect one time, we all was looking at [the old log jailhouse]. And they, and they brought in, had hounds. And they brought them hound in and brought three niggas with them hound, runaway niggas, you know, caught in the wood. And they, right, right across, right at the creek there, they take them niggas and put them on, and put them on a log lay them down and fasten them. And whup them. You hear them niggas hollering and praying on them logs. And there was a nigga bring them in. Then they take them out down there and put them in jail.”

RUBY T. LOMAX, interviewer: “That’ll be enough.” [slight pause]

[from letter]

To: George Cronyn, Associate Directorof the Federal Writers’ Project (FWP)From: John A. Lomax, National Advisoron Folklore and Folkways for the FWP

4 / 9 / 37

All the stories are worth while but these two are mainly (andone entirely) in dialect and abound in human interest touches.AlltheinterviewersshouldcopytheNegroExpressions. I much prefer to read unedited (but typed) “interviews,”and I should like to see as soon as possible all the seventy-five towhich Miss Dillard refers. It is most important, too, to secure copies of “slave codes,overseers codes and the like.” This item is new and all thestates should send in similar material.

[ to field ]

It is mid-July in Alabama, which means that the nape of her neck hums warm beneath her hair. Above Smith’s Station, the sky sleeps bare-- white-blue heat atop daydream fields, faded, scalded by the crush of economic depression. Mrs. Preston Klein beholds the small town of Lee County. Here live: mayflies in empty riverbeds; southeastern field crickets in empty woods; hogs in dusty pens; ex-slaveowners in dusty manors; and ex-slaves in wooden shanties. To those shanties Preston will go, in search of the inhabitants’ tales of a time long-gone. Preston will sit and question. Later, she will type. Her typed Field Copy willmove to the FWP district office; a Field Edited Copy to the state office; and a StateEditorial Copy to Mr. Lomax in Washington. FC to FEC to SEC, and then a check for $37.50 is made out to P. C. Klein every two weeks. Preston tucks a black pen behind her ear. She smiles. Her recent work, shethinks, has been well-received. There was “Cornshuckin’ Was de Greates’ Thing” and “Plenty of Food and No Trash Either,” and before that, there was “Slavery Was All Right in Its Place.” Preston does not mind the interviews-- some are even with old acquaintances. Sure, they “honey” her this and “honey” her that, but the neat cabins of neat women like Sally Murphy and Molly Parker feel familiar to Preston. “Lawdy chile, you knows I know Mr. Pompy,” Sally Murphy had said ofPreston’s father. “I’ll tell you anything I knows.” The former slaves of her pa actednothing short of obliging. Many of the other ex-slaves, however, mistake Preston for a government worker. To them, Preston arrives as a glint of hope-- a fair-skinned, well-dressed, state-employed means of acquiring that fabled “pension.” Approaching the first shanty of the day, Preston pauses beneath the shade of a shriveled cedar. She runs inner forearm against drip-slicked forehead. Baked leaves whisper against the dirt. Further ahead: a head of grey bobs among wind-warped planes of once-whitelaundry. Spotting the unexpected visitor, the woman narrows eyes swaddled bycrumpled skin. Preston walks over. “Has you come to help me?” “No, Carrie.” Preston straightens. “I want you to tell me about slavery.”

[ through man ]

Enclosed is a memorandum of Mr. Lomax with suggestions for simplifying the spelling of certain recurring dialect words. This does not mean that the interviews should be entirely in “straight English” -- simply, that we want them to be more readable to those uninitiated in the broadest Negro speech.

Negro Dialect Suggestions

Do not write:

Tuh for toWuz for wasMoster for marster or massaBaid for bedCot for caughtDaid for dead

[ through mouth ]

Jasper, TX, 1940. Adjusting the government-issue sound equipment, John and Ruby Lomax await their honored guest. Imagine-- the last of the slave generation’s authentic songs permanently captured in recordings! When Billy McCrea arrives, John ushers the older man into the small interview room. Ruby offers to take Uncle Billy’s hat; her husband coaxes him to have a seat. Greetings, smiles, then: Uncle Billy leans into the microphone and sings. “A-blow, Cornie, blow.” Uncle Billy’s voice plunges into the first “blow,”swelling with deep grace. “Blow, Cornie, blow.” His voice pours, purls. “A-blew it cold, loud and mournful.” Gushes warm on “cold”; ebbs shy. “Blow, Cornie, Blow.” Uncle Billy soaks melody in viscous memory. Sopping,soused, song swathes the room. John and Ruby meet eyes. This is oral history.

[ to history ]

In the 1930s, the Federal Writers’ Project collected more than 2,300 interviews with former slaves; a mere twenty-three of those remain as audio recordings. Interviews were infrequently recorded-- the direct-to-disc devices used by fieldworkers were heavy, unwieldy, and impractical for constant transportation. Additionally, the instantaneous discs proved vulnerable to mishandling and deterioration over time. Samuel Polite of St. Helena Island, South Carolina was interviewed on June 27, 1932. As with the other surviving audio files, that of Polite’s interview is riddled with heavy crackling, intermittent gaps, and other sound difficulties. Beneath a thick layer of rippling static, the following portrait of Polite’s former overseer emerges:

Interviewer: How’d he treat you?

Mr. Samuel Polite: Huhh?

Interviewer: How did he treat you?

Mr. Samuel Polite: Treat you? Well, I believe [ ] the only somebody that is,that is that man. That is the devil. That is the only one died is him.

Interviewer: What did he do?

Mr. Samuel Polite: Huhh?

Interviewer: What did he do?

Mr. Samuel Polite: Well, he would get up in the morning, run his hands in hispockets. Into his pockets and tell you, you know [ ] work. And came right outand [ ] and rub that horse and pull them up in the sun and then he tell you[ ] get yourself dirty from rubbing that horse, he would go down, down onyour knees. And he would whip, whip you and [ ] on you. And so the wayI been through from a boy up to a man today ain't nothing better for tell metoday about slavery. Ain't nothing better to tell me about [ ].

[Note: The published story of one Sam Polite, ex-slave aged 93, appears in Volume XIV, Part 3 of the South Carolina Narratives. No account of the aforementioned overseer exists there. Rather, an attempt has been made to balance the given narrative-- punishment was deserved (“But Maussa good to slabe if dey done day’s tas’ and don’t be up to no meanness”), and slavery’s evil was not unequivocal (“Slabery done uh good t’ing for me, ‘cause if he ain’t larn me to wuk, today I wouldn’t know how to wuk”).]

[ through mouth ]

Jasper, TX, 1940. “Blow, Cornie, blow. Oh, blow loud just so he can hear you. Blow, Cornie, blow. I think I hear the Captain call you. Blow, Cornie, blow.” Uncle Billy concludes the song, uncomfortable. He had not wanted to singtoday-- had told the Mr. and Mrs. just as much. “I didn’t want come,” he’d said as Mr. John slammed the door shut. “My voice is not good. I can’t-- I’m afraid I can’t do what-- talk like I want to talk.” But that had not pleased Mr. John. The white man, unsmiling: “If you don’t sing, Mr., please you tonight I’ll-- we’ll bring you back in the daytime.” So Uncle Billy had sung. He’d sung one of those songs like before they’d go towork. “Old master just sit beside, you know, and they-- when they land now, then you had to tote [the salt] up this bank and put it in the warehouse. And they would sing the while they’s toting it.” He’d sung the song just the same as before, except now here was Mr. John instead of old master, and here was his old self alone instead of the whole team, and here was a little old room with some big sound apparatus instead of dry blood sky above the river’s callous echoes.

[ through man ]

Enclosed is a photograph of a bell rack-- a suggestion for simplifying the safekeeping of certain recurring runaway slaves. This does not mean that the nation should be entirely censured for its legacy of oppressing black bodies-- but simply, that we want this iron contraption constraining the slave’s neck and waist to be more readable as a distant evil of the past to those uninitiated in the broader anatomy of modern systemic violence.

The Bell Rack

Do not:

Run awayYou willBe caughtAnd thenYou willBe punished

[ to field ]

It is mid-July in Alabama, which means that the laundry will take longer to dry, and now here is this white woman who does not even plan to help Carrie Davis with her pension. Carrie shakes her head. Silent, she leads the white woman to the bench beneath the mulberry tree.Smoothing wrinkled hands across her clean white apron, Carrie prompts the woman to continue. The white woman asks about slavery times-- as if anyone expects pleasantmidsummer recollections from that kind of inquiry. But the white woman asks, so Carrie obliges. Exhaling in the shade of the mulberry, she does not censor herself (not knowing that Preston Klein’s editor will later pen thick parentheses around the following anyway): “Honey, I ‘members dat he had regular days to whup all de slaves wid strops.De strops had holes in ‘em so dat dey raised big blisters. Den dey took a hand saw, cut de blisters and washed ‘em in salt water." Carrie cannot see why this woman wants to know about their medicine or their weddings or their beds, but if she wants to know, then she should know: “No’m, our beds warn’t so good. Dey was homemade and de sides was scantlings wid legs nailed on. Den slats was nailed on top of it to put our shuck-and-straw mattresses on.” When they are done, Mrs. Preston Klein asks for a photograph, and Carrie nods assent. She turns her body slightly toward the camera, propping her right arm on the back of the bench and letting her left rest against her torso. Carrie cocks her head just so and presses dried lips together.

[from letter]

To: George Cronyn, Associate Directorof the Federal Writers’ Project (FWP)From: John A. Lomax, National Advisoron Folklore and Folkways for the FWP

Victor Ha is currently a Master of Arts in Teaching candidate. As a part of his graduate studies, he currently enjoys the immense privilege of learning, laughing, and loving alongside his 12th grade English students at an urban public charter school in Providence, RI. He recently completed his undergraduate studies at Brown, concentrating in English and the History of Art and Architecture. During his undergraduate career, he received the Barbara Banks Brodsky Prize in Real World Writing, as well as the Weston Award for Literary Arts.